


Cavalry

by yeaka



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:56:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Ghirahim enjoys Link even in common gear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Legend of Zelda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Now that he’s in and past the gate, it’s easy enough to put up a simple barrier—not one strong enough to alert Zelda, but efficient enough to let him know if anyone else slips out into the hallway. This sight is for him alone.

But only one man trains in the dead of night to creep back into the castle, his breath laboured from his practice and his boots heavy on the stone. Ghirahim waits in the shadows and watches the flicker from the sconces wash orange over yellow hair, until Link’s right at the handle of his door.

Then Ghirahim’s behind him, surging to life and enfolding him in demanding arms. Ghirahim crushes Link tight against his chest and hooks a sharp chin over Link’s shoulder, white hair gliding aside. His tongue comes out to tease Link’s cheek, and Link’s breath hitches, neck tilting aside. 

Such _easy_ prey. This is why Ghirahim truly gave in, though he’ll never tell a soul. He claims to have picked the winning side, but he really picked the more alluring one. He can feel every one of Link’s taut muscles straining in his grip. Ghirahim laves his tongue along Link’s jaw, and Link parts his pink lips to _moan_.

He sounds as filthy as he looks. Ghirahim chuckles his enjoyment. Then he plucks at Link’s white shirt and purrs, “Back to your trainee tunic, are you? Are you that reluctant to stand out?” Link makes no noise of agreement or protest, and Ghirahim smoothes both palms down the blue-embroidered front, only for his fingers to curl under at the hem. He pokes beneath the chain-link armour to explore the supple skin of Link’s tight stomach and coos, “Do you worry that I focus too much on your green clothes? Do you think I’ve made a fetish out of the legendary hero?” 

Now Link groans, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the words or from Ghirahim raking blunt nails across his breast. Link’s own hands are fists at his sides, arms trembling but not daring to move. This isn’t his expertise. 

_Everything_ is Ghirahim’s, and he pinches Link’s left nipple to earn a faint cry. His other hand presses Link all the harder into him, the indent of his tights grinding into Link’s ripe ass. Into Link’s pointed ear, he sighs, “You’ve miscalculated, hero; I find this even better.” He makes his point by running both hands possessively over Link’s broad chest and hissing, “The reminder of what you really are—no more than one of a thousand disposable soldiers destined only to serve your master—makes my desire burn all the fiercer.” Link’s skin is already warm despite the cool night air—Ghirahim sets him to fire easily.

Ghirahim abandons Link’s chest only to dart both hands beneath Link’s trousers, and Link arches his entire body with a wanton cry, hips thrust into Ghirahim’s eager palms. Ghirahim squeezes him hard and wraps around his pulsing cock, while he begins to writhe and shudder.

He’s such a _pretty_ thing. More so, perhaps, in his grander clothes, but he looks just as well in this, and Ghirahim likes the way his head’s left exposed, all his soft hair bristling against Ghirahim’s cheek without the rough contrast of fabric. His neck’s free of any scarf, giving Ghirahim room to lavish with his tongue. When Ghirahim gives a little squeeze to Link’s raging cock, Link whines desperately and buckles. Ghirahim follows him, half holding him, onto the stone ground. Link’s thighs spread crudely open, and Ghirahim takes the vulgar display for what it is: a plea for _more_. Ghirahim delivers, as only his greatest treasure’s earned. 

He hisses in Link’s ear, “ _This_ is what you are, no matter what you wear: you’re still my dirty boy, my handsome pet, my pleasure toy.” He nips at Link’s ear again and growls more poignantly, “You are _mine_.”

He pumps Link hard, rhythmic and smooth, just the way he knows Link likes, the way that makes Link go wild in his arms, so wholly undone, so trusting. It’s exhilarating to watch, breathtaking to hear. The smell of Link’s shampoo, sweat, and arousal is intoxicating. But _feeling_ him is the greatest part. Ghirahim savours every squeeze, every stroke. His own desire nearly consumes him, but he holds it at bay for his show of power. He pleasures Link until Link is nearly sobbing for release, trembling in his arms, and finally shrieking at the finish. Link splatters Ghirahim’s hand with a milk white that Ghirahim pumps out to the last. He gets a special satisfaction out of wiping the mess off across Link’s own stomach. 

He would withdraw now. He knows he should. This precious creature needs rest, and though Ghirahim wouldn’t admit it, Link _is_ precious to him. His most treasured prize. He presses a lingering kiss, full of warmth, against Link’s temple. 

But then Link turns slowly around in his arms, blue eyes ablaze. They share only one second, and then Link darts forward to smash a ferocious kiss against Ghirahim’s lips, and they both go tumbling to the floor.


End file.
